For many reasons, Cato "the Censor" can hardly be wholly ignored in

any adequate general view of literature. If we look to the chance of

survival as a test of vitality, his practical and juiceless book on

Agriculture is the oldest volume of Latin prose extant; though we can

hardly speak of it as still existing in the form given it by Cato. It

appears to have been cruelly "modernized" in outward form about the

time of Augustus. Again, the sturdy old supporter of Roman simplicity

was the first Italian to publish a collection of orations. A hundred

and fifty speeches were known to Cicero. Fragments of eighty still

survive; though in many cases they are represented merely by citations

given incidentally by some late grammarian, to prove the existence of

some rare word or antiquated form. Again, the 'Origines' of Cato would

not only have afforded us, if preserved, welcome light upon the

beginnings of Rome and many other Italian cities, but a political and

military history, brought down to Cato's own day, and especially

valuable for its fearless treatment of recent events. Indeed, his own

actual speeches were taken up into the history, and one of them, as

partly preserved by Aulus Gellius, furnishes the best example we have

of the straightforward unadorned oratory of early Rome. There is

reason to believe, even, that Cato left what we may fairly call an

encyclopaedia,--dedicated to, and compiled for, his son. At any rate,

he wrote largely--not to mention works already alluded to--on

eloquence, medicine, the military art, etc.

Yet it must be confessed that Cato illustrates, as strikingly as any

figure that could be selected, how little at home the true literary

artist would have found himself in early Latium, if a perverse fate

had made it possible for him to be born there, or to stray thither, at

all. Even his figure and face were repellent enough to stand between

Socrates and Samuel Johnson, as the most familiar ugly old men upon

the stage of the world's life.

"Porcius, fiery-haired, gray-eyed, and snarling at all

men,--"

says the unforgiving satirist, is unwelcome even when dead, to

Persephone in Hades! No authentic portrait-statue of him exists.

Indeed these Roman busts and figures, especially in the earlier time,

were the work of Greek artists, and the likelihood of his giving a

sitting to one of that race is exceedingly small.

The only work of Cato's which from its title might seem to have had a

poetic form was the 'Carmen de Moribus.' It seems to have been a

eulogy upon old Roman simplicity. Not only are the extant fragments in

prosaic prose, but the most famous of them declares, with evident

regret over his own gentler days of degeneracy: "Their custom was to

be dressed in public respectably, at home so much as was needful. They

paid more for horses than for cooks. The poet's art was in no honor.

_If a man was devoted to it_, or applied himself to conviviality, _he

was called a vagabond_!"

Indeed, Cato's activity in literature probably had for its chief end

and aim to resist the incoming tide of Greek philosophy and of

refinement generally; he is the very type of Horace's "laudator

temporis acti," "the eulogist of a bygone time": that crude heroic

time when Dentatus, hero of three triumphs, ate boiled turnips in his

chimney-corner, and had no use for Macedonian gold.

Whether there was any important mass of ballads or other purely

national Roman or Latin literature in that elder day has been much

debated. The general voice of scholars is against Niebuhr and

Macaulay. There is every indication that the practical, unimaginative

Latin plowmen and spearsmen received the very alphabet of every art

from vanquished Hellas. Much of this same debate has turned on a

fragment from Cato. Cicero reports:--"In his 'Origines' Cato said that

it had been a custom of the forefathers, for those who reclined at

banquet to sing to the flute the praises and merits of illustrious

heroes." The combination of conviviality and song in this passage

tempts us to connect it with the scornful words from Cato's own

'Carmen,' already cited! Cato was half right, no doubt. The simple

charm and vigor of rustic Latium were threatened; Greek vice and

Oriental luxury were dangerous gifts: but his resistance was as

hopeless as Canute's protest to the encroaching waves. That this

resistance was offered even to the great Greek literature itself, is

unquestionable.

"I will speak of those Greeks in a suitable place, son

Marcus, telling what I learned at Athens, and what benefit it

is to look into their books,--not to master them. I shall

prove them a most worthless and unteachable (!) race. Believe

that this is uttered by a prophet: whenever that folk imparts

its literature, it will corrupt everything."

The harsh, narrow, intolerant nature of Cato is as remote as could

well be from the scholarly or literary temper. Even his respectful

biographer Plutarch bursts out with indignant protest against the

thrifty advice to sell off slaves who had grown old in service.

Indeed, most of Cato's sayings remind us of some canny old Scot,

or--it may be politer to say--of a hard-headed Yankee farmer, living

out the precepts of Poor Richard's philosophy.

"Grip the subject: words will follow," is his chief contribution to

rhetoric. Another has, it must be confessed, more of Quintilian's

flavor: "An orator, son Marcus, is a good man skilled in speaking." He

is most at home however upon his farm, preaching such familiar

economies as "Buy not what you need, but what you must have: what you

do not need is dear at a penny." The nearest approach to wit is but a

sarcastic consciousness of human weakness, like the maxim "Praise

large farms, but till a small one"; the form of which, by the way, is

strikingly like the advice given long before by a kindred spirit, the

Ascraean farmer Hesiod:--

"Praise thou a little vessel, and store thy freight in a

large one!"

Even the kindness of Cato has a bitter flavor peculiarly Roman. When

the great Greek historian Polybius and his fellow exiles were finally

permitted to return to their native land, Cato turned the scale toward

mercy in the Senate with the haughty words, "As though we had nothing

to do, we sit here discussing whether some old Greeks shall be carried

to their graves here or in Achaia!" There was a touch of real humor,

and perhaps of real culture too, in his retort when Polybius asked in

addition for the restoration of civic honors held in Greece seventeen

years agone. "Polybius," he said, with a smile, "wishes to venture

again into the Cyclops's cave, because he forgot his cap and belt." A

few touches like this permit us to like, as well as to admire, this

grim and harsh pattern of old simplicity.

Whether "Cato learned Greek at eighty" as a grudging concession to the

spirit of the age, or to obtain weapons from the foe's own armory

wherewith to combat his influence, we need not argue. Indeed, it is

nearly certain that any special study at that time could have been

only a revival of "what he learned at Athens" many years earlier.

It is however a supreme touch of irony in Cato's fate, that he

rendered, doubtless unconsciously, a greater service to Hellenistic

culture in Rome than did even his illustrious younger contemporary

Scipio AEmilianus, the patron of Terence and the generous friend of

Polybius; for it was our Cato who brought in his train from Sardinia

the gallant young soldier afterward known as the poet Ennius,--the

creator of the Latin hexameter, of the artistic Roman epic, and in

general the man who more than any other made Greek poetry, and even

Greek philosophy, well known and respected among all educated Romans.

Cato is chiefly known to us through Plutarch, whose sketch shows the

tolerance of that beloved writer toward the savage enemy of Hellenism.

The charming central figure of Cicero's dialogue on 'Old Age' takes

little save his name from the bitter, crabbed octogenarian, who was

still adding to his vote on any and all subjects, "Moreover, Senators,

Carthage must be wiped out." All the world admires stubborn courage,

especially in a hopeless cause. We, the most radical and democratic of

peoples, especially admire the despairing stand of a belated

conservative. The peculiar virtues of the stock were repeated no less

strikingly in the great-grandson, Cato of Utica, and make their name a

synonym forevermore of unbending stoicism. The phrase applied by a

later Roman poet to Cato of Utica may perhaps be quoted no less

fittingly as the epitaph of his ancestor:--

"The gods preferred the victor's cause, but Cato the

vanquished;"

for in spite of him, the Latin literature which has come down to us

may be most truly characterized as "the bridge over which Hellenism

reaches the modern world."

ON AGRICULTURE

From 'De Agricultura.'

[The following extract gives a vivid glimpse of the life on a

Latian farm. The Roman gentleman may be regarded as an

"absentee landlord," giving this advice to his agent. The

"family" is, of course, made up of slaves.]

These shall be the bailiff's duties. He shall keep up good discipline.

The holidays must be observed. He shall keep his hands from other

people's property, and take good care of his own. He shall act as

umpire for disputes in the family. If any one is guilty of mischief,

he shall exact return in good measure for the harm done. The family is

not to suffer, to be cold, to be hungry. He is to keep it busy, as

thus he will more easily restrain it from mischief and thieving. If

the bailiff does not consent to evil-doing there will be none. If he

does allow it, the master must not let it go unpunished. For kindness

he is to show gratitude, so that the same one may be glad to do right

in other matters. The bailiff must not be a saunterer; he must always

be sober; he mustn't go out to dinner. He must keep the family busy;

must see to it that the master's commands are carried out. He mustn't

think he knows more than the master. The master's friends he must

count as his own. He is to pay no attention to any one, unless so

bidden. He is not to act as priest except at the Compitalia or at the

hearthside. He is to give no one credit save at the master's orders.

When the master gives credit he must exact payment. Seed-corn, kitchen

utensils, barley, wine, oil, he must lend to no one. He may have two

or three families from whom he borrows, and to whom he lends, but no

more. He must square accounts with his master often. The mechanic, the

hireling, the sharpener of tools, he must never keep more than a day.

He mustn't buy anything without the master's knowledge, nor hide

anything from the master, nor have any hanger-on. He should never

consult a soothsayer, prophet, priest, or Chaldean.... He should know

how to do every farm task and should do it often, without exhausting

himself. If he does this, he will know what is in the minds of the

family and they will work more contentedly. Besides, if he works he

will have less desire to stroll about, and be healthier, and sleep

better. He should be the first to get up and the last to go to bed;

should see that the country house is locked up, that each one is

sleeping where he belongs, and that the cattle are fed.

FROM THE 'ATTIC NIGHTS' OF AULUS GELLIUS

[The extract given below, as will be seen, is quoted for the

most part not from Cato but from Aulus Gellius. However, the

practice of Gellius on other occasions where we are able to

compare his text with the original, indicates that he merely

modernized Cato's phraseology. In many cases such changes

probably make no difference at all in the modern rendering.]

Marcus Cato, in his book of 'Origins,' has recorded an act of Quintus

Caedicius, a military tribune, really illustrious, and worthy of being

celebrated with the solemnity of Grecian eloquence. It is nearly to

this effect:--The Carthaginian general in Sicily, in the first Punic

war, advancing to meet the Roman army, first occupied some hills and

convenient situations. The Romans, as it happened, got into a spot

open to surprise, and very dangerous. The tribune came to the consul,

pointing out the danger from the inconvenience of the spot, and the

surrounding enemy. "I think," says he, "if you would save us, you must

immediately order certain four hundred to advance to yonder wart" (for

thus Cato indicated a rugged and elevated place) "and command them to

take possession of it; when the enemy shall see this, every one among

them that is brave and ardent will be intent on attacking and

frightening them, and will be occupied by this business alone, and

these four hundred men will doubtless all be slain;--you, whilst the

enemy shall be engaged in slaughter, will have an opportunity of

withdrawing the army from this place: there is no other possible

method of escape."

The consul replied that the advice appeared wise and good. "But whom,"

says he, "shall I find, that will lead these four hundred men to that

spot against the battalions of the enemy?"--"If," answered the

tribune, "you find no one else, employ me in this dangerous

enterprise; I offer my life to you and my country."

The consul thanked and praised him. The tribune, with his four hundred

men, advanced to death. The enemy, astonished at their boldness,

waited to see where they were going; but when it appeared that they

were marching to take possession of the hill, the Carthaginian general

sent against them the ablest men of his army, both horse and foot. The

Roman soldiers were surrounded, and being surrounded, fought; the

contest was long doubtful, but numbers at length prevailed; the four

hundred, to a man, were either slain with the sword or buried under

missile weapons. The consul, in the interval of the engagement,

withdrew his troops to a spot high and secure, but the event which

happened to this tribune who commanded the four hundred, I shall

subjoin, not in my own but Cato's words: "The immortal gods gave the

military tribune a fortune suitable to his valor: for thus it

happened, when he was wounded in every other part, his head alone was

unhurt, and when they distinguished him amongst the dead, exhausted

with wounds, and breathing with difficulty from loss of blood, they

bore him off. He recovered, and often afterwards performed bold and

eminent services to his country; and this exploit of his detaching

these troops preserved the remainder of the army. But the place where

the same deed is done, is of great importance. Leonidas of Lacedaemon,

whose conduct was the same at Thermopylae, is extolled; on account of

his virtues all Greece celebrated his glory, and raised his name to

the highest degree of eminence, testifying their gratitude for his

exploit by monuments, trophies, statues, panegyrics, histories, and

other similar means. But to this tribune of the people, who did the

same thing, and saved his country, small praise has been assigned."

JACOB CATS

(1577-1660)

[Illustration: JACOB CATS]

The life of Jacob Cats falls within the golden age of Dutch

literature, represented in the north by Hooft, Roemer Visscher, and

Joost van den Vondel, and in the south by the Zeeland circle of poets,

among whom Cats was undoubtedly the greatest. There have been times

when Cats's was the one name among Dutch poets; in homes where no

other books were found, one might at least be sure of finding the

Bible and "Father Cats." But it is doubtful whether he would be

considered great outside of Holland. He is the most prosaic of poets,

has limited power of language and a still more limited choice of

versification; with these drawbacks he is, however, most

characteristically Dutch, partly on account of his practical moral

teachings and partly on account of the monotonous tic-tac of his

verse. The erection of a monument in his honor in his native city, and

the painting of his portrait by Rembrandt in 1635, were therefore

well-deserved tributes to a man strangely representative of his

nation. Yet, even in Holland, voices have been raised against his

popularity. Busken Huet has called him "a miserable character, a

personified mediocrity, a vulgar and vulgarizing spirit."

Jacob Cats, the youngest of four children, was born in Brouwershaven

on the 10th of November, 1577. His mother died when he was only a few

years old, and his father, member of the council in Brouwershaven,

soon gave his children a stepmother. Cats praises her "good deeds and

good management" in his verses; but it would seem as if her management

were not in accordance with what the family considered beneficial to

the children. One of the uncles adopted little Jacob, and sent him to

the school of Master Dirk Kemp in Zierikzee. Here he met a young boy

from Brabant who was cultivating poetry, and their daily comradeship

awakened the same tastes in Cats. Master Kemp was a man who, although

of good intentions, had not the power to carry them out; Jacob's uncle

accordingly took him out of school and sent him to the University of

Leyden to study law.

From Leyden he went to Orleans, where he took his degree, and then to

Paris. When he had been here for some time, his uncle thought it

wisest to call him back; and Cats's career dates from his return to

The Hague, where he settled as a lawyer. Very soon after he had taken

up his practice he succeeded in saving a woman accused of witchcraft,

and won the case of a young man who, in defending his father from a

murderous attack, had killed the assailant. These cases called

attention to Cats; he soon made a name for himself. His activity was

then suddenly interrupted by a severe illness. He was forced to leave

the damp climate of Holland, and went to England to seek the counsel

of Queen Elizabeth's famous physician Butler. The treatment gave him

no relief, however; and he did not improve until after his return to

Holland, where he met a learned alchemist, to whose skill he ascribed

his cure. In 1603 he moved to Middelburg, and began life with new

strength. He tells in one of his poems of his meeting in the French

church with a young girl, with whom he fell in love at first sight; of

his growing affection for her and his intention to marry her; of the

report that her father had just lost all his money in a speculation;

and he confesses with a most naive and rather cynic frankness:--

"For her in very truth, with but the least of cause

And with a joyful heart, I'd given up the ghost.--

Look ye, this evil lot that to the father fell

Has in an instant's time my heart of love bereft!"

Immediately after this incident, Cats married Elizabeth van

Valkenburg, a rich girl from Antwerpen. Her good sense, faithfulness,

and housewifely virtues found a warm expression in the following

words:--

"She was a worthy woman,

A foundation for a home, a model of truth."

This period of Cats's life, almost coincident with the twelve-years'

armistice ending in 1621, when the war with Spain was resumed, was one

of varied activity. Aside from the duties of his practice, he gave

much time to the diking of grounds neglected during the war, now in

great danger from the sea; and while at his country-place Grijpskerke

near Middelburg, where his "flock of children played under the trees,"

he wrote the poems 'Emblemata of Sinnebeelden' (Emblemata or Emblems);

'Maeghdeplicht' (Maiden Duty), in 1618; 'Selfstryt' (Inward Strife),

1620; 'Toonel der Mannelycke Achtbaerheyd' (Scene of Manly

Respectability), and 'Houwelyck' (Marriage).

With the beginning of the war his own peace was at an end. Several of

the grounds reclaimed from the sea were once more flooded to prevent

the advance of the enemy. In 1621 he accepted the office of pensionary

of Middelburg, his first step toward official statesmanship. In 1623

he was elected pensionary of Dordrecht, and although he hesitated in

leaving Zeeland, he finally decided to accept the office. In 1625 he

added to his duties those of Curator of Leyden University. His

literary work was consequently laid aside.

In 1627 Cats accompanied Albert Joachimi as ambassador to London to

open negotiations for a navigation treaty. He was only partly

successful in his mission, but was met with much consideration by

Charles I., who decorated him with the order of St. Jovis. Shortly

after his return he lost his wife after a brief illness.

While he was writing 'Trouwring' (Wedding Ring), a collection of epic

and lyric poems, he was elected Secretary of State in 1636, and in

1645 Keeper of the Great Seal and Governor. But he had the experience

in his public life that a crown may often be a crown of thorns; and in

1651 he begged to be released from his burdensome office. His demand

was granted, and on this occasion Cats fell on his knees in the

presence of the States-General and thanked God for taking away his

heavy burden. He was once more persuaded to join an embassy to

England. Cromwell had meanwhile come to power; Cats and his

fellow-travelers returned with but little accomplished, and the old

statesman and poet saw himself free to spend the last years of his

life on his place Zorgvliet, which he had built outside of The Hague

on the way to Scheveningen, in the midst of the Dunes. Although he may

not have been a great statesman, he had felt the responsibility of his

calling. He was never quite equal to it, and often felt himself

helpless and small against the encroachment of the Powers. But honesty

and patriotism were his to the fullest extent.

The last eight years of his life he spent in Zorgvliet in undisturbed

peace. He returned to his literary labors and wrote 'Onderdom en

Buitenleven' (Age and Country Life), 'Hofgedachtess' (Court Thoughts),

and his rhymed autobiography 'Twee-entaghtig-jarig Leven' (A Life of

Eighty-two Years). He seems to have kept his warm interest and joy in

life to the very last.

FEAR AFTER THE TROUBLE

Awhile ago I read a tale methinks is curious.

Perhaps to every one the story may be useful;

Therefore in timeliness unto the light I drag it,

In hope that all who read, in it will find a pleasure.

A lord once lived of old, whose joy it was to wander

In field and flowery mead, quite to his heart's contentment.

A horse he had withal, so sage that, slept the rider,

It home would wisely go, without the knight to waken.

And so it came to pass that one day forthward faring,

To dine, the cavalier by a good friend was bidden.

He met with welcome glad; good wine went freely flowing.

At last, for all such cheer, the guest must take his leave.

Himself then he prepared to climb into his saddle,

And turned his beast about, that home were soon attained.

The day was bleak and raw; the sun of light was chary;

Through clouds before its face, a pallid light descended.

The wise steed careful stepped onward along the highway,

Its sober rider borne, as custom was, unwearied.

Anon the usual drowse closed up the rider's eyelids:

His beast walked calmly on, in faithfulness of service;

The man, profoundly sleeping, traveled as he was wonted;

The time at last brought near when he should reach his dwelling.

But lo! a friend is met, who questions him in wonder:--

"How possible it was his steed had brought him thither?"

The knight responded straight--"Why, I the way have ridden

That, during seven years, I constantly have come;

My beast on which I sit hath borne me duly houseward--

The midnight's dark itself makes not his foot unsteady."

"How, friend?" his questioner cried, "even when _the bridge_ is

broken?

The stream to cross at all, no other means I know:

This wondrous horse of thine old Perseus must have owned,

Who fought the dragon once, and cut its head to pieces.

Things sure are as they were! You came not flying hither!

It seems to me, belike, a ghost has been your cheater.

To take it otherwise, the joke to me seems pointless.

Not possible it is, this story that you tell me.

But that o'er such a thing no wrangling be between us,

Come to the bridge with me; I gladly will be escort.

The spot and fact themselves, in proof I straight will disclose,

That you may note how ill goes with your word the matter."

Whereto so long a speech? The Knight was well persuaded;

The flood is reached again, the truth of things lies open!

Bridge is there none indeed--rests but a strip of planking,

Crossing the rushing wave, narrow and all unsteady.

The foot of man must needs with prudence o'er it tiptoe,

The nerve and will be firm to reach that further goal.

The foot that is not true, that left or right shall waver,

Drowns in the flood below the passenger unlucky.

When now the man of naps marks all at once the bridge,

Notes well the narrow path, marks the too slender footway,

His shock in truth is great; loud his poor heart goes beating.

In fear and shudders cold, the scene he stands and pictures;

Sees with a frightened eye just how his path has served him.

And more and more his soul sickens with tardy terror,

More to his heart the blood, driven away, goes rushing;--

That hour of fear to him brought him an endless illness.

Look now, how odd it seems! He well in peace had ridden,

Suffering no mishap, spared from the thing all mischief--

Utterly downcast is, whereas his danger's over!

Fear makes him sick at heart, deep in his being centred.

Questions now any one what be this tale's life-lesson?

Him shall I gladly give what in it lies, methinks;

Speak out as best I can what as a maxim's plainest:--

Friendly is never he sparing of bread and counsel.

The man who rode his way safely and lost in slumber,

He unto whom occurred just this strange bit of fortune,

Like is he (it meseems) unto the lustful mortal,

Evil in earthly course, given to sottish living,

Wandering on, shut-eyed, lost in the way of pleasure,

Taking no slightest notice of the abyss so open:

Never with heed made blessed, not with his conscience warned:

How at his side is Death, prompt to cut off the living!

But with our Lord God's grace, suddenly on him bestowed,

Opening wide his eye--then, not till then, he's awakened.

Terror absorbs his soul, holy the fear that takes it;

Now is the sinner roused, sees for the first his doings.

Wondering see him stand, uttering loud his outcry:--

"Awful has been my blindness, dreadful my soul's delusion.

How could I be so tricked? how could my sleep so grip me?

I who, in touch with death, careless my ease was taking!"

Happy in truth the man fallen in no such peril,

Since with a careful eye watches he every footstep,

Blessed in that God himself insight to him has granted

What was his danger to feel; how he has made escapement.

Translation through the German by E. Irenaeus Stevenson.

"A RICH MAN LOSES HIS CHILD, A POOR MAN LOSES HIS COW"

Come hither, pray, O friends! Let me my sorrow tell you.

Wordless such loss to bear, my heart indeed endures not:

All that the soul downweighs seems to a man less bitter,

If to the friendly ear sorrow can be but uttered.

Dead is my neighbor's child: dead is my only cow.

Comfort has fled from him; fled from me every joying.

So do we sorrow, both, reft of our peace each bosom:

He that his child is dead--I that my cow is taken.

Look you now, friends! how strange ay, and how sad Fate's dealings!

I well had spared a child--one cow he well had wanted.

Turn things about, thou Death! Less evil seem thy doings.

Full is my house--too full: surely is full his cow-house!

Death, take his stalls for prey, or choose from out my seven!

There have you, Death, full room; less to us too the trouble.

Certain the pain's forgot--ay, and forgotten quickly,

When, in the greater herd, one little wolf's a robber!

What do I murmur thus? Ever is Death one earless.

Lost on _him_ good advice, argument on him wasted.

Onward he moves, this Death, pallid and wholly blindly.

Oftenest he a guest just where his call's least needed.

Ah, who can calm my grief; who, pray, shall still my neighbor's?

Just as we would not choose, so unto each it happens!--

He who is rich must lose all that means nearest heirship,

I, the poor man, O God! stripped of my one possession!

Translation through the German by E. Irenaeus Stevenson.

CATULLUS

(84-54 B.C.?)

BY J. W. MACKAIL

[Illustration: VALERIUS CATULLUS]

The last thirty years of the Roman Republic are, alike in thought and

action, one of the high-water marks of the world's history. This is

the age of Cicero and of Julius Caesar. This brief period includes the

conquest of Gaul, the invasion of Britain, the annexation of the

Asiatic monarchies founded by Alexander's marshals; the final collapse

of the Roman oligarchy which had subdued the whole known world; the

development of the stateliest and most splendid prose that the world

has ever seen or is ever likely to see; and lastly, a social life

among the Roman upper classes so brilliant, so humane, so intimately

known to us from contemporary historians, poets, orators,

letter-writers, that we can live in it with as little stretch of

imagination as we can live in the England of Queen Anne. Among the

foremost figures of this wonderful period is Valerius Catullus, the

first of Latin lyric poets, and perhaps the third, alongside of Sappho

and Shelley, in the supreme rank of the lyric poets of the world.

He represents in his life and his genius the fine flower of his age

and country. He was born at Verona of a wealthy and distinguished

family, while Italy was convulsed by the civil wars of Marius and

Sulla; he died at the age of thirty, while Caesar was completing the

conquest of Gaul, and the Republic, though within a few days of its

extinction, still seemed full of the pride of life. The rush and

excitement of those thrilling years is mirrored fully in the life and

poetry of Catullus. Fashion, travel, politics, criticism, all the

thousandfold and ever-changing events and interests of the age, come

before us in their most vivid form and at their highest pressure, in

this brief volume of lyrics. But all come involved with and

overshadowed by a story wholly personal to himself and immortal in its

fascination: the story of an immense and ill-fated love that "fed its

life's flame with self-substantial fuel," and mounted in the morning

glories of sunrise only to go down in thunder and tempest before noon.

There are perhaps no love poems in the world like these. Of Sappho,

seemingly the greatest poet of her sex, we can only dally with surmise

from mutilated fragments. No one else in the ancient world comes into

the account. The Middle Ages involved love inextricably with

mysticism. When Europe shook the Middle Ages off, it had begun to

think. Exquisite reflections on love, innocent pastorals, adorable

imagery,--these it could produce; in the France of the Pleiade for

instance, or in the England of Greene and Campion: but thought and

passion keep ill company. Once only, a century ago, a genius as fierce

and flame-like as that of Catullus rose to the height of this

argument. An intractable language, sterilizing surroundings, bad

models, imperfect education, left Burns hopelessly distanced; yet the

quintessential flame that he shares with Catullus has served to make

him the idol of a nation, and a household word among many millions of

his race.

Clodia, the "Lady of the Sonnets" in Catullus, whom he calls Lesbia by

a transparent fiction, has no ambiguous or veiled personality. She was

one of the most famous and most scandalous women of her time. By birth

and marriage she belonged to the innermost circle of that more than

royal Roman aristocracy which had accumulated the wealth of the world

into its hands, and sent out its younger sons carelessly to misgovern

and pillage empires. When Catullus made her acquaintance, she was a

married woman some six or seven years older than himself. "Through a

little arc of heaven" the poems show his love running its sorrowful

and splendid course. Rapture of tenderness, infatuation, revolt,

relapse, re-entanglement, agonized stupor, the stinging pain of

reviving life, fierce love passing into as fierce a hatred, all sweep

before us in dazzling language molded out of pure air and fire.

So far, Burns alone, and Burns only at his rarer heights, can give a

modern reader some idea of Catullus. But Burns had little education

and less taste; and so when he leaves the ground of direct personal

emotion,--that is to say, in nineteen-twentieths of his poetry,--he is

constantly on the edge, and often over it, of tawdriness, vulgarity,

commonplace. Catullus was master of all the technical skill then known

to poetry. Without anything approaching the immense learning of Virgil

or Milton, he had, like Shelley among English poets, the instincts and

training of a scholar. It is this fine scholarship--the eye and hand

of the trained artist in language--combined with his lucid and

imperious simplicity, like that of some gifted and terrible child,

that makes him unique among poets. When he leaves the golden fields of

poetry and dashes into political lampoons, or insolent and unquotable

attacks on people (men or women) who had the misfortune to displease

him, he becomes like Burns again, Burns the satirist; yet even here

nimbler witted, lighter of touch, with the keenness of the rapier

rather than of the Northern axe-edge.

His scholarliness--like that of most scholars--was not without its

drawbacks. His immediate literary masters, the Greeks of the

Alexandrian school, were a coterie of pedants; it would be idle to

claim that he remained unaffected by their pedantry. In the last years

of his life he seems to have lost himself somewhat in technical

intricacies and elaborate metrical experiments; in translations from

that prince in preciosity, the Alexandrian Callimachus; and idyllic

pieces of overloaded ornament studied from the school of Theocritus.

The longest and most ambitious poem of these years, the epic idyl on

'The Marriage of Peleus and Thetis,' is full of exquisite beauties of

detail, but taken in its whole effect is languid, cloying, and

monotonous. He makes a more brilliant success in his other long poem,

the famous 'Atys,' the single example in Latin of the large-scale

lyric so familiar to Greece and England.

But indeed in every form of lyric poetry attempted by him, his touch

is infallible. The lovely poems of travel which he wrote during and

after a voyage to Asia are as unequaled in their sunny beauty as the

love-lyrics are in fire and passion. Alongside of these there are

little funny verses to his friends, and other verses to his enemies

which they probably did not think funny in the least; verses of

occasion and verses of compliment; and verses of sympathy, with a deep

human throb in them that shows how little his own unhappy love had

embittered him or shut him up in selfish broodings. Two of these

pieces are pre-eminent beyond all the rest. The one is a marriage song

written by him for the wedding of two of his friends, Mallius

Torquatus and Vinia Aurunculeia. In its straightforward unassuming

grace, in its musical clearness, in the picture it draws, with so

gentle and yet so refined and distinguished a touch, of common

household happiness, it is worthy of its closing place in the golden

volume of his lyrics.

The other is a brief poem, only ten lines long, written at his

brother's grave near Troy. It is one of the best known of Latin poems;

and before its sorrow, its simplicity, its piteous tenderness, the

astonishing cadence of its rhythms, praise itself seems almost

profanation.

"Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hundred years ago--" so Tennyson in

one of his own beautiful lyrics addresses Catullus; and it is this

unsurpassed tenderness that more than all his other admirable

qualities, than his consummate technical skill, than his white heat of

passion, than his "clearness as of the terrible crystal," brings him

and keeps him near our hearts.

That wonderful Ciceronian age has left its mark as few ages have, deep

upon human history. The conquests and legislation of Julius Caesar

determined the future of Europe and laid the foundation of the modern

world. The prose invented by Cicero became and still remains the

common language of civilized mankind. Among the poems of Catullus are

verses addressed to both of these men; but his own young ivy-crowned

brows shine out of the darkness and the distance, with no less pure a

radiance and no less imperishable a fame.

[Signature: J.W. Mackail]

NOTE.--In Mr. Mackail's closing phrase the lover of Ovid will

note an echo from that poet's famous elegy suggested by the

premature death of still another Roman singer, Tibullus. Among

the kindred spirits--says Ovid--who will welcome the new-comer

to the Elysian fields,--

"Thou, O learned Catullus, thy young brows ivy-encircled,

Bringing thy Calvus with thee, wilt to receive him appear."

ED.

DEDICATION FOR A VOLUME OF LYRICS

This dainty little book and new,

Just polished with the pumice, who

Shall now receive?--Cornelius, you!

For these my trifles even then

You counted of some value, when

You only of Italian men

Into three tomes had dared to cast

The story of all ages past,--

Learned, O Jupiter, and vast!

So take it, prize it as you may.

--And, gracious Virgin, this I pray:

That it shall live beyond our day!

Translation of W. C. Lawton.

A MORNING CALL

Varus would take me t'other day

To see a little girl he knew,--

Pretty and witty in her way,

With impudence enough for two.

Scarce are we seated, ere she chatters

(As pretty girls are wont to do)

About all persons, places, matters:--

"And pray, what has been done for _you_?"

"Bithynia, lady!" I replied,

"Is a fine province for a praetor;

For none (I promise you) beside,

And least of all am I her debtor."

"Sorry for that!" said she. "However,

You have brought with you, I dare say,

Some litter-bearers; none so clever

In any other part as they.

"Bithynia is the very place

For all that's steady, tall, and straight;

It is the nature of the race.

Could you not lend me six or eight?"

"Why, six or eight of them or so,"

Said I, determined to be grand;

"My fortune is not quite so low

But these are still at my command."

"You'll send them?"--"Willingly!" I told her,

Although I had not here or there

One who could carry on his shoulder

The leg of an old broken chair.

"Catullus! what a charming hap is

Our meeting in this sort of way!

I would be carried to Serapis

To-morrow!"--"Stay, fair lady, stay!

"You overvalue my intention.

Yes, there _are_ eight ... there may be nine:

I merely had forgot to mention

That they are Cinna's, and not mine."

Paraphrase of W. S. Landor.

HOME TO SIRMIO

Dear Sirmio, that art the very eye

Of islands and peninsulas, that lie

Deeply embosomed in calm inland lake,

Or where the waves of the vast ocean break;

Joy of all joys, to gaze on thee once more!

I scarce believe that I have left the shore

Of Thynia, and Bithynia's parching plain,

And gaze on thee in safety once again!

Oh, what more sweet than when, from care set free,

The spirit lays its burden down, and we,

With distant travel spent, come home and spread

Our limbs to rest along the wished-for bed!

This, this alone, repays such toils as these!

Smile, then, fair Sirmio, and thy master please,--

And you, ye dancing waters of the lake,

Rejoice; and every smile of home awake!

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

HEART-BREAK

With your Catullus ill it fares, alas!

O Cornificius, and most wearily;

Still worse with all the days and hours that pass.

And with what greeting do you comfort me?

The least of boons, and easiest to bestow;

Wroth am I, that my love is answered so.

A word of greeting, pray you; what you please;

More sad than tear-drops of Simonides!

Translation of W. C. Lawton.

TO CALVUS IN BEREAVEMENT

If there be aught, my Calvus, that out of our sorrowing proffered

Unto the voiceless dead grateful or welcome may be,

When we revive with insatiate longing our ancient affection,

When for the ties we lament, broken, that once have been ours,

Though Quintilia grieve for her own untimely departure,

Yet in thy faithful love greater, be sure, is her joy.

Translation of W. C. Lawton.

THE PINNACE

This pinnace, friends, which here you see,

Avers erewhile she used to be

Unmatched for speed, and could outstrip

Triumphantly the fastest ship

That ever swam, or breasted gale,

Alike with either oar or sail.

And this, she says, her haughty boast,

The stormy Adriatic coast,

The Cyclad islands, Rhodes the grand,

Rude Thrace, the wild Propontic strand,

Will never venture to gainsay;

Nor yet the Euxine's cruel bay,

Where in her early days she stood,

This bark to be, a shaggy wood;

For from her vocal locks full oft,

Where o'er Cytorus far aloft

The fitful mountain-breezes blow,

She piped and whistled loud or low.

To thee, Amastris, on thy rocks,

To thee, Cytorus, clad with box,

Has long been known, my bark avers,

This little history of hers.

In her first youth, she doth protest,

She stood upon your topmost crest,

First in your waters dipped her oars,

First bore her master from your shores

Anon unscathed o'er many a deep,

In sunshine and in storm to sweep;

Whether the breezes, as she flew,

From larboard or from starboard blew,

Or with a wake of foam behind,

She scudded full before the wind.

Nor to the gods of ocean e'er

For her was offered vow or prayer,

Though from yon farthest ocean drear

She came to this calm crystal mere.

But these are things of days gone past.

Now, anchored here in peace at last,

To grow to hoary age, lies she,

And dedicates herself to thee,

Who hast alway her guardian been,

Twin Castor, and thy brother twin!

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

AN INVITATION TO DINNER

If the gods will, Fabullus mine,

With me right heartily you'll dine.

Bring but good cheer--that chance is thine

Some days hereafter;

Mind, a fair girl too, wit, and wine,

And merry laughter.

Bring these--you'll feast on kingly fare;

But bring them--for my purse--I swear

The spiders have been weaving there;

But thee I'll favor

With a pure love, or what's more rare,

More sweet of savor,

An unguent I'll before you lay

The Loves and Graces t'other day

Gave to my girl--smell it--you'll pray

The gods, Fabullus,

To make you turn all nose straightway.

Yours aye, CATULLUS.

Translation of James Cranstoun.

A BROTHER'S GRAVE

Brother! o'er many lands and oceans borne,

I reach thy grave, death's last sad rite to pay;

To call thy silent dust in vain, and mourn,

Since ruthless fate has hurried thee away:

Woe's me! yet now upon thy tomb I lay--

All soaked with tears for thee, thee loved so well--

What gifts our fathers gave the honored clay

Of valued friends; take them, my grief they tell:

And now, forever hail! forever fare thee well!

Translation of James Cranstoun.

FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOW-OFFICERS

The milder breath of Spring is nigh;

The stormy equinoctial sky

To Zephyr's gentle breezes yields.

Behind me soon the Phrygian fields,

Nicaea's sun-beat realm, shall lie.

To Asia's famous towns we'll hie.

My heart, that craves to wander free,

Throbs even now expectantly.

With zeal my joyous feet are strong;

Farewell, dear comrades, loved so long!

Afar together did we roam;

Now ways diverse shall lead us home.

Translation of W. C. Lawton.

VERSES FROM AN EPITHALAMIUM

And now, ye gates, your wings unfold!

The virgin draweth nigh. Behold

The torches, how upon the air

They shake abroad their gleaming hair!

Come, bride, come forth! no more delay!

The day is hurrying fast away!

But lost in shame and maiden fears,

She stirs not,--weeping, as she hears

The friends that to her tears reply,--

Thou must advance, the hour is nigh!

Come, bride, come forth! no more delay!

The day is hurrying fast away!"

Dry up thy tears! For well I trow,

No woman lovelier than thou,

Aurunculeia, shall behold

The day all panoplied in gold,

And rosy light uplift his head

Above the shimmering ocean's bed!

As in some rich man's garden-plot,

With flowers of every hue inwrought,

Stands peerless forth with drooping brow

The hyacinth, so standest thou!

Come, bride, come forth! no more delay!

The day is hurrying fast away!

* * * * *

Soon my eyes shall see, mayhap,

Young Torquatus on the lap

Of his mother, as he stands

Stretching out his tiny hands,

And his little lips the while

Half-open on his father smile.

And oh! may he in all be like

Manlius his sire, and strike

Strangers, when the boy they meet,

As his father's counterfeit,

And his face the index be

Of his mother's chastity!

Him, too, such fair fame adorn,

Son of such a mother born,

That the praise of both entwined

Call Telemachus to mind,

With her who nursed him on her knee,

Unparagoned Penelope!

Now, virgins, let us shut the door!

Enough we've toyed, enough and more!

But fare ye well, ye loving pair,

We leave ye to each other's care;

And blithely let your hours be sped

In joys of youth and lustyhed!

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

NOTE.--The remaining poems of our selection are all associated with

the famous passion for Lesbia.

LOVE IS ALL

Let us, Lesbia darling, still

Live our life, and love our fill;

Heeding not a jot, howe'er

Churlish dotards chide or stare!

Suns go down, but 'tis to rise

Brighter in the morning skies;

But when sets our little light,

We must sleep in endless night.

A thousand kisses grant me, sweet:

With a hundred these complete;

Lip me a thousand more, and then

Another hundred give again.

A thousand add to these, anon

A hundred more, then hurry one

Kiss after kiss without cessation,

Until we lose all calculation;

So envy shall not mar our blisses

By numbering up our tale of kisses.

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

ELEGY ON LESBIA'S SPARROW

Loves and Graces, mourn with me,

Mourn, fair youths, where'er ye be!

Dead my Lesbia's sparrow is,

Sparrow that was all her bliss,

Than her very eyes more dear;

For he made her dainty cheer;

Knew her well, as any maid

Knows her mother; never strayed

From her bosom, but would go

Hopping round her to and fro.

And to her, and her alone,

Chirruped with such pretty tone.

Now he treads that gloomy track

Whence none ever may come back.

Out upon you, and your power,

Which all fairest things devour,

Orcus's gloomy shades, that e'er

Ye took my bird that was so fair!

Ah, the pity of it! Thou

Poor bird, thy doing 'tis, that now

My loved one's eyes are swollen and red,

With weeping for her darling dead.

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

"FICKLE AND CHANGEABLE EVER"

Never a soul but myself, though Jove himself were to woo her,

Lesbia says she would choose, might she have me for her mate.

Says--but what woman will say to a lover on fire to possess her,

Write on the bodiless wind, write on the stream as it runs.

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

TWO CHORDS

I Hate and love--the why I cannot tell.

But by my tortures know the fact too well.

Translation of Sir Theodore Martin.

LAST WORD TO LESBIA

O Furius and Aurelius! comrades sweet!

Who to Ind's farthest shore with me would roam,

Where the far-sounding Orient billows beat

Their fury into foam;

Or to Hyrcania, balm-breathed Araby,

The Sacian's or the quivered Parthian's land,

Or where seven-mantled Nile's swoll'n waters dye

The sea with yellow sand;

Or cross the lofty Alpine fells, to view

Great Caesar's trophied fields, the Gallic Rhine,

The paint-smeared Briton race, grim-visaged crew,

Placed by earth's limit line:

To all prepared with me to brave the way,

To dare whate'er the eternal gods decree--

These few unwelcome words to her convey

Who once was all to me.

Still let her revel with her godless train,

Still clasp her hundred slaves to passion's thrall,

Still truly love not one, but ever drain

The life-blood of them all.

Nor let her more my once fond passion heed,

For by her faithlessness 'tis blighted now,

Like flow'ret on the verge of grassy mead

Crushed by the passing plow.

Translation of James Cranstoun.

BENVENUTO CELLINI

(1500-1571)

Among the three or four best autobiographies of the world's

literature, the 'Memoirs' of Benvenuto Cellini are unique as the

self-delineation of the most versatile of craftsmen, a bizarre genius,

and a typical exponent of the brilliant period of the later Italian

Renaissance. As a record of the ways of living and modes of thinking

of that fascinating epoch, they are more lively and interesting than

history, more entertaining, if more true to fact, than a romance. As

one of his Italian critics, Baretti, put it:--"The life of Benvenuto

Cellini, written by himself in the pure and unsophisticated idiom of

the Florentine people, surpasses every book in our literature for the

delight it affords the reader." This is high praise for the product of

a literature that boasts of Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' and gave birth to

the _novelle_, the parent of modern fiction. Yet the critics of other

nations have echoed this praise. Auguste Comte, the positivist

philosopher, included it in his limited list for the reading of

reformed humanity, and Goethe, laying aside his own creative work,

deemed it worth his time and attention to translate into German.

Benvenuto Cellini was born at Florence in 1500. The father, Giovanni

Cellini, a musician and maker of musical instruments, intended that

the boy should likewise become a musician; but young Benvenuto very

early showed strong leaning toward the plastic art, and detested the

flute he was forced to practice. The first chapters of the 'Memoirs'

are a most lively description of the struggles between the wishes of

the father and those of the son, until the latter finally prevailed,

and at fifteen years of age he was apprenticed to a goldsmith of

Florence. He made rapid progress, and soon attracted notice as a

skilled craftsman. At the same time, to please his father, toward whom

he everywhere professes the most filial feeling, he continued "that

confounded flute-playing" as a side issue. This accomplishment,

however, did him a good turn at the Papal court later on. After

various youthful escapades, street broils, and quarrels with his

father, he fled in monk's disguise to Rome in 1521. A vase made for

the Bishop of Salamanca drew upon him the notice of Pope Clement VII.,

who appointed him court musician and also employed him in his proper

profession of goldsmith. When the Constable de Bourbon attacked Rome,

in 1527, Cellini was of great service to the Pope in defending the

city. He boasts of having from the ramparts shot the Bourbon; and

indeed, if one were to take him strictly at his word, his valor and

skill as an engineer saved the castle of San Angelo and the Pope.

However his lively imagination may have overrated his own importance,

yet it is certain that his military exploit paved the way for his

return to Florence, where for a time he devoted himself to the

execution of bronze medals and coins. The most famous of the former

are Hercules and the Nemean Lion, and Atlas supporting the world.

On the elevation of Paul III. to the Papacy we again find Cellini at

Rome, working for the Pope and other eminent people. His extraordinary

abilities brought him not only into the notice of the courts, but also

drew him into the brilliant literary and artistic society of the

Eternal City. With unrivaled vividness he flashes before us in a few

bold strokes the artists of the decadent Renaissance, the pupils of

Raphael, led by Giulio Romano, with their worship of every form of

physical beauty and their lack of elevation of thought. In consequence

of the plottings of his implacable enemy, Pier Luigi, natural son of

Paul III., he was arrested on the charge of having during the sack of

Rome embezzled Pontifical gold and jewels to the amount of eighty

thousand ducats. Though the charge was groundless, he was committed to

the castle of San Angelo. His escape is narrated in one of the most

thrilling chapters of the 'Memoirs.' He went in hiding to the Cardinal

Cornaro, but was delivered up again to the Pope by an act of most

characteristic sixteenth-century Italian policy, and was cast into a

loathsome underground dungeon of the castle. It was damp, swarming

with vermin, and for two hours of the day only received light through

a little aperture. Here he languished for many months, with only the

chronicles of Giovanni Billani and an Italian Bible to solace him. Now

at last his recklessness and bravado forsook him. He took on the airs

of a saint, gave himself up to mysticism, grew delirious and had his

famous visions--angels visiting him, who talked with him about

religion.

In 1539 he was finally released at the intercession of the cardinal

Ippolito d'Este, who came from France to invite him to enter the

King's service. Cellini's account of his residence in France has great

historic value as throwing vivid side-lights on that interesting

period in the development of French social life, when Francis I. was

laying the foundation of the court society which was later on brought

to perfection by Louis XIV. Cellini was one among that crowd of

Italian artists gathered at the court in Paris and Versailles, whose

culture was to refine the manners of the French warrior barons. He

worked for five years at Fontainebleau and in Paris. Among his works

there, still extant, are a pair of huge silver candelabra, the gates

of Fontainebleau, and a nymph in bronze, reposing among trophies of

the chase, now in the Louvre. Among other marks of royal favor he was

presented with a castle, Le Petit Nesle. His efforts to gain

possession of this grant are among the amusing episodes of his

narrative.

He had as usual numerous quarrels, and falling into disfavor with

Madame d'Estampes, the King's favorite, he suddenly left Paris and

returned alone to Florence. The remainder of his life he passed mainly

in the service of Duke Cosimo de' Medici. The chapters of his

narrative dealing with this portion give a most vivid picture of

artist life at an Italian court in the sixteenth century. To this

third and last period belongs the work on which his fame as sculptor

rests, the bronze Perseus holding the head of Medusa, completed in

1554 and still standing in the Loggia de' Lanzi in Florence. It is a

typical monument of the Renaissance, and was received with universal

applause by all Italy. Odes and sonnets in Italian, Greek, and Latin

were written in its praise. His minute description of its casting, and

of his many trials during that process, are among the most interesting

passages of the narrative.

In 1558 he began to write his memoirs, dictating them for the greater

part to an amanuensis; and he carried them down to the year 1562. The

events of the remaining nine years of his life are to be gathered from

contemporary documents. In 1558 he received the tonsure and first

ecclesiastical orders, but married two years later, and died in 1571.

He was buried with great pomp in the Church of the Annunciata in

Florence.

Besides his 'Memoirs' he also wrote treatises on the goldsmith's art

and on sculpture, with especial reference to bronze-founding. They are

of great value as manuals of the craftsmanship of the Renaissance, and

excellent specimens of good Italian style as applied to technical

exposition. And like all cultivated artists of his time Cellini also

tried his hand at poetry; but his lack of technical training as a

writer comes out even more in his verse than in his prose. The life of

Benvenuto was one of incessant activity, laying hold of the whole

domain of the plastic arts: of restless wanderings from place to

place; and of rash deeds of violence. He lived to the full the life of

his age, in all its glory and all its recklessness. As the most famous

goldsmith of his time, he worked for all the great personages of the

day, and put himself on a footing of familiar acquaintance with popes

and princes. As an artist he came into contact with all the phases of

Italian society, since a passion for external beauty was at that time

the heritage of the Italian people, and art bodied forth the innermost

life of the period. Furniture, plate, and personal adornments were not

turned out wholesale by machinery as they are to-day, but engaged the

individual attention of the most skilled craftsmen. The memory and the

traditions of Raphael Sanzio were still cherished by his pupils when

Cellini first came to Rome into the brilliant circle of Giulio Romano

and his friends; Michelangelo's frescoes were studied with rapturous

admiration by the young Benvenuto, and later on he proudly recorded

some words of praise of the mighty genius whom he worshiped; and at

this time, too, Titian and Tintoretto set the heart of Venice aglow

with the splendor and color of their marvelous canvases. The

contemporary though not the peer of those masters of the brush and the

chisel, Cellini, endowed with a keen feeling for beauty, a dexterous

hand, and a lively imagination, in his versatility reached out toward

a wider sphere of activity, and laid hold of life at more points, than

they.

He reflected the Renaissance, not merely on its higher artistic

aspect, but he touched it also on its lower darker levels of brute

passion, coarseness, and vindictiveness. He had more than one murder

to his account, and he did not slur over them in his narrative, for in

his make-up the bravo was equally prominent with the artist. Yet we

must remember that homicides were of common occurrence in those days,

defended by casuists and condoned by the Church. Avenging one's honor,

or punishing an insult with the dagger, were as much a social custom

as the adornment of the body with exquisitely wrought fabrics and

jewelry. But just because Cellini was so thoroughly awake to all the

influences about him, and so entirely bent on living his life, his

'Memoirs' are perennially fresh and attractive. They are the plain

unvarnished annals of a career extraordinary even in that age of

uncommon experiences; they were written, as he says, because "all men

of whatever quality they be, who have done anything of excellence, or

which may properly resemble excellence, ought, if they are persons of

truth and honesty, to describe their life with their own hand; but

they ought not to attempt so fine an enterprise till they have passed

the age of forty."

[Illustration: BENVENUTO CELLINI.]

Cellini was past fifty-eight when he began writing, and going back to

his earliest boyhood, he set down the facts of his long career as he

remembered them. Of course he is the hero who recounts his own story,

and like all heroes of romance he plays the leading part, is always in

the right, and comes out handsomely in the end. Carping critics who

tax him with lack of truth in dealing with his enemies, and with

pleading his own cause too well, are apt to forget that he wrote long

after the events were past, and that to an ever-active imagination

ruminating over bygone happenings, facts become unconsciously colored

to assume the hue the mind wishes them to have. Yet the fidelity and

accuracy of his memory are remarkable, and his faculty for seeing,

combined with his dramatic way of putting things most vividly,

flashes before our eyes the scenes he recounts. He does not describe

much; he indicates a characteristic feature, habit, or attitude; as

for example, in referring to a man he disliked, as having "long

spidery hands and a shrill gnat-like voice"--all that is needed to

make us see the man from Cellini's point of view. Again, he adds much

to the vivacity of the narrative by reporting conversation as a

dialogue, even if he has it himself at second-hand. So in his

trenchant, nervous manner this keen observer, while aiming to recount

only the facts of his own life and to set himself on a becoming

pedestal in the eyes of posterity, gives us at the same time

flash-lights of the whole period in which he played a part. Popes

Clement VII. and Paul III., Cosimo de' Medici and his Duchess, the

King of France and Madame d' Estampes, cardinals, nobles, princes, and

courtiers, artists of every description, burghers and the common

folk,--all with whom he came in contact,--are brought before us in a

living pageant. Looking back over his checkered career, he lives his

intense life over again, and because he himself saw so vividly at the

time, he makes us see now. We have here invaluable pictures, by an

eye-witness and actor, of the sack of Rome, the plague and siege of

Florence, the pomp of Charles V. at Rome. He withdraws the curtains

from the Papal policies and court intrigues, not with a view to

writing history, but because he happened to have some relations with

those princes and wished to tell us about them. Again, he was no

critic of the manners of his time, yet he presents most faithful

pictures of artist life in Rome, Paris, and Florence. He was not given

to introspection and self-criticism, but he describes himself as well

as others, not by analysis but by deeds and words. He had no literary

training; he wrote as he talked, and gained his effect by simplicity.

He was recognized as the first goldsmith of his time; yet as a man

also his contemporaries speak well of him, for he embodied the virtues

of his age, while his morals did not fall below the average code of

the Renaissance. Vasari says:--"He always showed himself a man of

great spirit and veracity; bold, active, enterprising, and formidable

to his enemies; a man, in short, who knew as well how to speak with

princes as to exert himself in his art."

J. A. Symonds, that inspiring student of the Italian Renaissance, sums

up his impressions of the book and the man as follows:--

"I am confident that every one who may have curiously studied

Italian history and letters will pronounce this book to be at

one and the same time the most perfect extant monument of

vernacular Tuscan prose, and also the most complete and lively

source of information we possess regarding manners, customs,

ways of feeling, and modes of acting, in the Court. Those who

have made themselves thoroughly familiar with Cellini's

Memoirs possess the substance of that many-sided epoch in the

form of an epitome. It is the first book which a student of

the Italian Renaissance should handle in order to obtain the

right direction for his more minute researches. It is the last

book to which he should return at the close of his exploratory

voyages. At the commencement he will find it invaluable for

placing him at the exactly proper point of view. At the end he

will find it no less invaluable for testing and verifying the

conclusion he has drawn from various sources and a wide

circumference of learning. From the pages of this book the

genius of the Renaissance, incarnate in a single personality,

leans forth and speaks to us. Nowhere else, to my mind, do we

find the full character of the epoch so authentically stamped.

That is because this is no work of art or of reflection, but

the plain utterance of a man who lived the whole life of his

age, who felt its thirst for glory, who shared its adoration

of the beautiful, who blent its paganism and its superstition,

who represented its two main aspects of exquisite sensibility

to form and almost brutal ruffianism. We must not expect from

Cellini the finest, highest, purest accents of the

Renaissance.... For students of that age he is at once more

and less than his contemporaries: less, inasmuch as he

distinguished himself by no stupendous intellectual qualities;

more, inasmuch as he occupied a larger sphere than each of

them singly. He was the first goldsmith of his time, an

adequate sculptor, a restless traveler, an indefatigable

workman, a Bohemian of the purest water, a turbulent bravo, a

courtier and companion of princes; finally, a Florentine who

used his native idiom with incomparable vivacity of style."

THE ESCAPE FROM PRISON

From the 'Memoirs': Symonds's Translation

The castellan was subject to a certain sickness, which came upon him

every year and deprived him of his wits. The sign of its approach was

that he kept continually talking, or rather jabbering, to no purpose.

These humors took a different shape each year; one time he thought he

was an oil-jar; another time he thought he was a frog, and hopped

about as frogs do; another time he thought he was dead, and then they

had to bury him; not a year passed but he got some such hypochondriac

notions into his head. At this season he imagined that he was a bat,

and when he went abroad to take the air he used to scream like bats in

a high thin tone; and then he would flap his hands and body as though

he were about to fly. The doctors, when they saw the fit was coming on

him, and his old servants, gave him all the distractions they could

think of; and since they had noticed that he derived much pleasure

from my conversation, they were always fetching me to keep him

company. At times the poor man detained me for four or five stricken

hours without ever letting me cease talking. He used to keep me at his

table, eating opposite to him, and never stopped chatting and making

me chat; but during those discourses I contrived to make a good meal.

He, poor man, could neither eat nor sleep; so that at last he wore me

out. I was at the end of my strength; and sometimes when I looked at

him, I noticed that his eyeballs were rolling in a frightful manner,

one looking one way and the other in another.

He took it into his head to ask me whether I had ever had a fancy to

fly. I answered that it had always been my ambition to do those things

which offer the greatest difficulties to men, and that I had done

them; as to flying, the God of Nature had gifted me with a body well

suited for running and leaping far beyond the common average, and that

with the talents I possessed for manual art I felt sure I had the

courage to try flying. He then inquired what methods I should use; to

which I answered that, taking into consideration all flying creatures,

and wishing to imitate by art what they derived from nature, none was

so apt a model as the bat.

No sooner had the poor man heard the name bat, which recalled the

humor he was suffering under, than he cried out at the top of his

voice:--"He says true--he says true; the bat's the thing--the bat's

the thing!" Then he turned to me and said, "Benvenuto, if one gave you

the opportunity, should you have the heart to fly?" I said that if he

would set me at liberty, I felt quite up to flying down to Prato,

after making myself a pair of wings out of waxed linen. Thereupon he

replied:--"I too should be prepared to take flight; but since the Pope

has bidden me guard you as though you were his own eyes, and I know

you a clever devil who would certainly escape, I shall now have you

locked up with a hundred keys in order to prevent you slipping through

my fingers." I then began to implore him, and remind him that I might

have fled, but that on account of the word which I had given him I

would never have betrayed his trust; therefore I begged him for the

love of God, and by the kindness he had always shown me, not to add

greater evils to the misery of my present situation. While I was

pouring out these entreaties, he gave strict orders to have me bound

and taken and locked up in prison. On seeing that it could not be

helped, I told him before all his servants: "Lock me well up, and

keep good watch on me; for I shall certainly contrive to escape."

So they took me and confined me with the utmost care. I then began to

deliberate upon the best way of making my escape. No sooner had I been

locked in, than I went about exploring my prison; and when I thought

I had discovered how to get out of it, I pondered the means of

descending from the lofty keep, for so the great round central tower

is called. I took those new sheets of mine, which, as I have said

already, I had cut in strips and sewn together; then I reckoned up the

quantity which would be sufficient for my purpose. Having made this

estimate and put all things in order, I took out a pair of pincers

which I had abstracted from a Savoyard belonging to the guard of the

castle. This man superintended the casks and cisterns; he also amused

himself with carpentering. Now he possessed several pairs of pincers,

among which was one both big and heavy. I then, thinking it would suit

my purpose, took it and hid it in my straw mattress. The time had now

come for me to use it; so I began to try the nails which kept the

hinges of my door in place. The door was double, and the clinching of

the nails could not be seen; so that when I attempted to draw one out,

I met with the greatest trouble; in the end however I succeeded. When

I had drawn the first nail, I bethought me how to prevent its being

noticed. For this purpose I mixed some rust, which I had scraped from

old iron, with a little wax, obtaining exactly the same color as the

heads of the long nails which I had extracted. Then I set myself to

counterfeit these heads and place them on the holdfasts; for each nail

I extracted I made a counterfeit in wax. I left the hinges attached to

their door-posts at top and bottom by means of some of the same nails

that I had drawn; but I took care to cut these and replace them

lightly, so that they only just supported the irons of the hinges.

All this I performed with the greatest difficulty, because the

castellan kept dreaming every night that I had escaped, which made him

send from time to time to inspect my prison. The man who came had the

title and behavior of a catchpoll. He was called Bozza, a serving-man.

Giovanni never entered my prison without saying something offensive to

me. He came from the district of Prato, and had been an apothecary in

the town there. Every evening he minutely examined the holdfasts of

the hinges and the whole chamber, and I used to say:--"Keep a good

watch over me, for I am resolved by all means to escape."

These words bred a great enmity between him and me, so that I was

obliged to use precautions to conceal my tools; that is to say, my

pincers and a great big poniard and other appurtenances. All these I

put away together in my mattress, where I also kept the strips of

linen I had made. When day broke, I used immediately to sweep my room

out; and though I am by nature a lover of cleanliness, at that time I

kept myself unusually spick and span. After sweeping up, I made my bed

as daintily as I could, laying flowers upon it, which a Savoyard used

to bring me nearly every morning. He had the care of the cistern and

the casks, and also amused himself with carpentering; it was from him

I stole the pincers which I used in order to draw out the nails from

the holdfasts of the hinges.

Well, to return to the subject of my bed; when Bozza and Pedignone

came, I always told them to give it a wide berth, so as not to dirty

and spoil it for me. Now and then, just to irritate me, they would

touch it lightly, upon which I cried: "Ah, dirty cowards! I'll lay my

hand on one of your swords there, and will do you a mischief that will

make you wonder. Do you think you are fit to touch the bed of a man

like me? When I chastise you I shall not heed my own life, for I am

certain to take yours. Let me alone then with my troubles and my

tribulations, and don't give me more annoyance than I have already; if

not, I shall make you see what a desperate man is able to do." These

words they reported to the castellan, who gave them express orders

never to go near my bed, and when they came to me, to come without

swords; but for the rest to keep a watchful guard upon me.

Having thus secured my bed from meddlers, I felt as though the main

point was gained; for there lay all things useful to my venture. It

happened on the evening of a certain feast-day that the castellan was

seriously indisposed; his humors grew extravagant; he kept repeating

that he was a bat, and if they heard that Benvenuto had flown away,

they must let him go to catch me up, since he could fly by night most

certainly "as well or better than myself"; for it was thus he

argued:--"Benvenuto is a counterfeit bat, but I am a real one; and

since he is committed to my care, leave me to act; I shall be sure to

catch him." He had passed several nights in this frenzy, and had worn

out all his servants; whereof I received full information through

divers channels, but especially from the Savoyard, who was my friend

at heart.

On the evening of that feast-day, then, I made up my mind to escape,

come what might; and first I prayed most devoutly to God, imploring

his Divine Majesty to protect and succor me in that so perilous a

venture. Afterwards I set to work at all the things I needed, and

labored the whole of the night. It was two hours before daybreak when

at last I removed those hinges with the greatest toil; but the wooden

panel itself, and the bolt too, offered such resistance that I could

not open the door; so I had to cut into the wood; yet in the end I got

it open, and shouldering the strips of linen which I had rolled up

like bundles of flax upon two sticks, I went forth and directed my

steps toward the latrines of the keep. Spying from within two tiles

upon the roof, I was able at once to clamber up with ease. I wore a

white doublet with a pair of white hose and a pair of half-boots, into

which I had stuck the poniard I have mentioned.

After scaling the roof, I took one end of my linen roll and attached

it to a piece of antique tile which was built into the fortress wall;

it happened to jut out scarcely four fingers. In order to fix the

band, I gave it the form of a stirrup. When I had attached it to that

piece of tile, I turned to God and said: "Lord God, give aid to my

good cause; you know that it is good; you see that I am aiding

myself." Then I let myself go gently by degrees, supporting myself

with the sinews of my arms, until I touched the ground. There was no

moonshine, but the light of a fair open heaven. When I stood upon my

feet on solid earth, I looked up at the vast height which I had

descended with such spirit; and went gladly away, thinking I was free.

But this was not the case; for the castellan on the side of the

fortress had built two lofty walls, the space between which he used

for stable and hen-yard; the place was barred with thick iron bolts

outside. I was terribly disgusted to find there was no exit from this

trap; but while I paced up and down debating what to do, I stumbled on

a long pole which was covered up with straw. Not without great

trouble, I succeeded in placing it against the wall, and then swarmed

up it by the force of my arms until I reached the top. But since the

wall ended in a sharp ridge, I had not strength enough to drag the

pole up after me. Accordingly I made my mind up to use a portion of

the second roll of linen which I had there; the other was left hanging

from the keep of the castle. So I cut a piece off, tied it to the

pole, and clambered down the wall, enduring the utmost toil and

fatigue. I was quite exhausted, and moreover had flayed the inside of

my hands, which bled freely. This compelled me to rest awhile, and I

bathed my hands in my own urine.

When I thought that my strength was recovered, I advanced quickly

toward the last rampart, which faces toward Prato. There I put my

bundle of linen lines down upon the ground, meaning to fasten them

round a battlement, and descend the lesser as I had the greater

height. But no sooner had I placed the linen than I became aware

behind me of a sentinel, who was going the rounds. Seeing my designs

interrupted and my life in peril, I resolved to face the guard. This

fellow, when he noticed my bold front, and that I was marching on him

with weapon in hand, quickened his pace and gave me a wide berth. I

had left my lines some little way behind, so I turned with hasty steps

to regain them; and though I came within sight of another sentinel, he

seemed as though he did not choose to take notice of me. Having found

my lines and attached them to the battlement, I let myself go. On the

descent, whether it was that I thought I had really come to earth and

relaxed my grasp to jump, or whether my hands were so tired that they

could not keep their hold, at any rate I fell, struck my head in

falling, and lay stunned for more than an hour and a half, so far as I

could judge.

It was just upon daybreak, when the fresh breeze which blows an hour

before the sun revived me; yet I did not immediately recover my

senses, for I thought my head had been cut off, and fancied that I was

in purgatory. With time, little by little my faculties returned, and I

perceived that I was outside the castle, and in a flash remembered all

my adventures. I was aware of the wound in my head before I knew my

leg was broken; for I put my hands up and withdrew them covered with

blood. Then I searched the spot well, and judged and ascertained that

I had sustained no injury of consequence there; but when I wanted to

stand up, I discovered that my right leg was broken three inches above

the heel. Not even this dismayed me: I drew forth my poniard with its

scabbard; the latter had a metal point ending in a large ball, which

had caused the fracture of my leg; for the bone coming into violent

contact with the ball, and not being able to bend, had snapped at that

point. I threw the sheath away, and with the poniard cut a piece of

the linen which I had left. Then I bound my leg up as well as I

could, and crawled on all fours with the poniard in my hand toward the

city gate. When I reached it, I found it shut; but I noticed a stone

just beneath the door which did not appear to be very firmly fixed.

This I attempted to dislodge; after setting my hands to it, and

feeling it move, it easily gave way, and I drew it out. Through the

gap thus made I crept into the town.

THE CASTING OF PERSEUS

From the 'Memoirs': Symonds's Translation

Abandoned thus to my own resources, I took new courage and banished

the sad thoughts which kept recurring to my mind, making me often weep

bitter tears of repentance for having left France; for though I did so

only to revisit Florence, my sweet birthplace, in order that I might

charitably succor my six nieces, this good action, as I well

perceived, had been the beginning of my great misfortune. Nevertheless

I felt convinced that when my Perseus was accomplished, all these

trials would be turned to high felicity and glorious well-being.

Accordingly I strengthened my heart, and with all the forces of my

body and my purse, employing what little money still remained to me, I

set to work. First I provided myself with several loads of pine-wood

from the forests of Serristori, in the neighborhood of Montelupo.

While these were on their way, I clothed my Perseus with the clay

which I had prepared many months beforehand, in order that it might be

duly seasoned. After making its clay tunic (for that is the term used

in this art) and properly arming it and fencing it with iron girders,

I began to draw the wax out by means of a slow fire. This melted and

issued through numerous air-vents I had made; for the more there are

of these the better will the mold fill. When I had finished drawing

off the wax, I constructed a funnel-shaped furnace all round the model

of my Perseus. It was built of bricks, so interlaced, the one above

the other, that numerous apertures were left for the fire to exhale

it. Then I began to lay on wood by degrees, and kept it burning two

whole days and nights.

At length when all the wax was gone and the mold was well baked, I set

to work at digging the pit in which to sink it. This I performed with

scrupulous regard to all the rules of art. When I had finished that

part of my work, I raised the mold by windlasses and stout ropes to a

perpendicular position, and suspending it with the greatest care one

cubit above the level of the furnace, so that it hung exactly above

the middle of the pit. I next lowered it gently down into the very

bottom of the furnace, and had it firmly placed with every possible

precaution for its safety. When this delicate operation was

accomplished, I began to bank it up with the earth I had excavated;

and ever as the earth grew higher I introduced its proper air-vents,

which were little tubes of earthenware, such as folks use for drains

and suchlike purposes. At length I felt sure that it was admirably

fixed, and that the filling in of the pit and the placing of the

air-vents had been properly performed. I also could see that my

workpeople understood my method, which differed very considerably from

that of all the other masters in the trade. Feeling confident then

that I could rely upon them, I next turned to my furnace, which I had

filled with numerous pigs of copper and other bronze stuff. The pieces

were piled according to the laws of art; that is to say, so resting

one upon the other that the flames could play freely through them, in

order that the metal might heat and liquefy the sooner.

At last I called out heartily to set the furnace going. The logs of

pine were heaped in, and what with the unctuous resin of the wood and

the good draught I had given, my furnace worked so well that I was

obliged to rush from side to side to keep it going. The labor was more

than I could stand; yet I forced myself to strain every nerve and

muscle. To increase my anxieties, the workshop took fire, and we were

afraid lest the roofs should fall upon our heads; while from the

garden such a storm of wind and rain kept blowing in that it

perceptibly cooled the furnace.

Battling thus with all these untoward circumstances for several

hours, and exerting myself beyond even the measure of my powerful

constitution, I could at last bear up no longer, and a sudden fever of

the utmost possible intensity attacked me. I felt absolutely obliged

to go and fling myself upon my bed. Sorely against my will, having to

drag myself away from the spot, I turned to my assistants,--about ten

or more in all, what with master-founders, hand-workers, country

fellows, and my own special journeymen; among whom was Bernandino

Mannellini of Mugello, my apprentice through several years. To him in

particular I spoke:--"Look, my dear Bernandino, that you observe the

rules which I have taught you; do your best with all dispatch, for the

metal will soon be fused. You cannot go wrong; these honest men will

get the channels ready; you will easily be able to drive back the two

plugs with this pair of iron crooks; and I am sure that my mold will

fill miraculously. I feel more ill than I ever did in all my life, and

verily believe it will kill me before a few hours are over." Thus with

despair at heart I left them and betook myself to bed.

No sooner had I got to bed than I ordered my serving-maids to carry

food and wine for all the men into the workshop; at the same time I

cried, "I shall not be alive to-morrow." They tried to encourage me,

arguing that my illness would pass over, since it came from excessive

fatigue. In this way I spent two hours battling with the fever, which

steadily increased, and calling out continually, "I feel that I am

dying." My housekeeper, who was named Mona Fiore da Castel del Rio,

a very notable manager and no less warm-hearted, kept chiding me for

my discouragement; but on the other hand, she paid me every kind

attention which was possible. However, the sight of my physical pain

and moral dejection so affected her that in spite of that brave heart

of hers, she could not refrain from shedding tears; and yet, so far as

she was able, she took care I should not see them.

While I was thus terribly afflicted, I beheld the figure of a man

enter my chamber, twisted in his body into the form of a capital S. He

raised a lamentable, doleful voice, like one who announces their last

hour to men condemned to die upon the scaffold, and spoke these words:

"O Benvenuto! your statue is spoiled, and there is no hope whatever of

saving it." No sooner had I heard the shriek of that wretch than I

gave a howl which might have been heard from the sphere of flame.

Jumping from my bed, I seized my clothes and began to dress. The

maids, and my lad, and every one who came around to help me, got kicks

or blows of the fist, while I kept crying out in lamentation, "Ah!

traitors! enviers! This is an act of treason, done by malice prepense!

But I swear by God that I will sift it to the bottom, and before I die

will leave such witness to the world of what I can do as shall make a

score of mortals marvel."

When I had got my clothes on, I strode with soul bent on mischief

toward the workshop; there I beheld the men whom I had left erewhile

in such high spirits, standing stupefied and downcast. I began at once

and spoke:--"Up with you! Attend to me! Since you have not been able

or willing to obey the directions I gave you, obey me now that I am

with you to conduct my work in person. Let no one contradict me, for

in cases like this we need the aid of hand and hearing, not of

advice." When I had uttered these words, a certain Maestro Alessandro

Lastricati broke silence and said, "Look you, Benvenuto, you are going

to attempt an enterprise which the laws of art do not sanction, and

which cannot succeed."

I turned upon him with such fury and so full of mischief, that he and

all the rest of them exclaimed with one voice, "On then! Give orders!

We will obey your last commands, so long as life is left in us." I

believe they spoke thus feelingly because they thought I must fall

shortly dead upon the ground. I went immediately to inspect the

furnace, and found that the metal was all curdled; an accident which

we express by "being caked." I told two of the hands to cross the

road, and fetch from the house of the butcher Capretta a load of young

oak-wood, which had lain dry for above a year; this wood had been

previously offered me by Madame Ginevra, wife of the said Capretta. So

soon as the first armfuls arrived, I began to fill the grate beneath

the furnace. Now oak-wood of that kind heats more powerfully than any

other sort of tree; and for this reason, where a slow fire is wanted,

as in the case of gun foundry, alder or pine is preferred.

Accordingly, when the logs took fire, oh! how the cake began to stir

beneath that awful heat, to glow and sparkle in a blaze! At the same

time I kept stirring up the channels, and sent men upon the roof to

stop the conflagration, which had gathered force from the increased

combustion in the furnace; also I caused boards, carpets, and other

hangings to be set up against the garden, in order to protect us from

the violence of the rain.

When I had thus provided against these several disasters, I roared out

first to one man and then to another, "Bring this thing here! Take

that thing there!" At this crisis, when the whole gang saw the cake

was on the point of melting, they did my bidding, each fellow working

with the strength of three. I then ordered half a pig of pewter to be

brought, which weighed about sixty pounds, and flung it into the

middle of the cake inside the furnace. By this means, and by piling on

wood and stirring now with pokers and now with iron rods, the curdled

mass rapidly began to liquefy. Then, knowing I had brought the dead to

life again, against the firm opinion of those ignoramuses, I felt such

vigor fill my veins that all those pains of fever, all those fears of

death, were quite forgotten.

All of a sudden an explosion took place, attended by a tremendous

flash of flame, as though a thunderbolt had formed and been discharged

among us. Unwonted and appalling terror astonied every one, and me

more even than the rest. When the din was over and the dazzling light

extinguished, we began to look each other in the face. Then I

discovered that the cap of the furnace had blown up, and the bronze

was bubbling over from its source beneath. So I had the mouths of my

mold immediately opened, and at the same time drove in the two plugs

which kept back the molten metal. But I noticed that it did not flow

as rapidly as usual, the reason being probably that the fierce heat of

the fire we kindled had consumed its base alloy. Accordingly I sent

for all my pewter platters, porringers, and dishes, to the number of

some two hundred pieces, and had a portion of them cast, one by one,

into the channels, the rest into the furnace. This expedient

succeeded, and every one could now perceive that my bronze was in most

perfect liquefaction, and my mold was filling; whereupon they all with

heartiness and happy cheer assisted and obeyed my bidding, while I,

now here, now there, gave orders, helped with my own hands, and cried

aloud, "O God! thou that by thy immeasurable power didst rise from the

dead, and in thy glory didst ascend to heaven!"... Even thus in a

moment my mold was filled; and seeing my work finished, I fell upon my

knees, and with all my heart gave thanks to God.

After all was over, I turned to a plate of salad on a bench there, and

ate with hearty appetite, and drank together with the whole crew.

Afterwards I retired to bed, healthy and happy, for it was now two

hours before morning, and slept as sweetly as though I had never felt

a touch of illness. My good housekeeper, without my giving any orders,

had prepared a fat capon for my repast. So that when I rose, about the

hour for breaking fast, she presented herself with a smiling

countenance and said, "Oh, is that the man who felt that he was

dying? Upon my word, I think the blows and kicks you dealt us last

night, when you were so enraged, and had that demon in your body as it

seemed, must have frightened away your mortal fever! The fever feared

that it might catch it too, as we did!" All my poor household,

relieved in like measure from anxiety and overwhelming labor, went at

once to buy earthen vessels in order to replace the pewter I had cast

away. Then we dined together joyfully: nay, I cannot remember a day in

my whole life when I dined with greater gladness or a better appetite.

After our meal I received visits from the several men who had assisted

me. They exchanged congratulations and thanked God for our success,

saying they had learned and seen things done which other masters

judged impossible. I too grew somewhat glorious; and deeming I had

shown myself a man of talent, indulged a boastful humor. So I thrust

my hand into my purse and paid them all to their full satisfaction.

That evil fellow, my mortal foe, Messer Pier Francesco Ricci,

major-domo of the Duke, took great pains to find out how the affair

had gone. In answer to his questions, the two men whom I suspected of

having caked my metal for me said I was no man, but of a certainty

some powerful devil, since I had accomplished what no craft of the art

could do; indeed, they did not believe a mere ordinary fiend could

work such miracles as I in other ways had shown. They exaggerated the

whole affair so much, possibly in order to excuse their own part in

it, that the major-domo wrote an account to the Duke, who was then in

Pisa, far more marvelous and full of thrilling incidents than what

they had narrated.

After I had let my statue cool for two whole days, I began to uncover

it by slow degrees. The first thing I found was that the head of

Medusa had come out most admirably, thanks to the air-vents; for as I

had told the Duke, it is the nature of fire to ascend. Upon advancing

farther, I discovered that the other head, that, namely, of Perseus,

had succeeded no less admirably; and this astonished me far more,

because it is at a considerably lower level than that of the Medusa.

Now the mouths of the mold were placed above the head of Perseus and

behind his shoulders; and I found that all the bronze my furnace

contained had been exhausted in the head of this figure. It was a

miracle to observe that not one fragment remained in the orifice of

the channel, and that nothing was wanting to the statue. In my great

astonishment I seemed to see in this the hand of God arranging and

controlling all.

I went on uncovering the statue with success, and ascertained that

everything had come out in perfect order, until I reached the foot of

the right leg on which the statue rests. There the heel itself was

formed, and going further, I found the foot apparently complete. This

gave me great joy on the one side, but was half unwelcome to me on the

other, merely because I had told the Duke that it could not come out.

However, when I reached the end, it appeared that the toes and a

little piece above them were unfinished, so that about half the foot

was wanting. Although I knew that this would add a trifle to my labor,

I was very well pleased, because I could now prove to the Duke how

well I understood my business. It is true that far more of the foot

than I expected had been perfectly formed; the reason of this was

that, from causes I have recently described, the bronze was hotter

than our rules of art prescribe; also that I had been obliged to

supplement the alloy with my pewter cups and platters, which no one

else, I think, had ever done before.

Having now ascertained how successfully my work had been accomplished,

I lost no time in hurrying to Pisa, where I found the Duke. He gave me

a most gracious reception, as did also the Duchess; and although the

major-domo had informed them of the whole proceedings, their

Excellencies deemed my performance far more stupendous and astonishing

when they heard the tale from my own mouth. When I arrived at the foot

of Perseus, and said it had not come out perfect, just as I previously

warned his Excellency, I saw an expression of wonder pass over his

face, while he related to the Duchess how I had predicted this

beforehand.

Observing the Princess to be so well disposed towards me, I begged

leave from the Duke to go to Rome. He granted it in most obliging

terms, and bade me return as soon as possible to complete his Perseus;

giving me letters of recommendation meanwhile to his ambassador,

Averardo Serristori. We were then in the first years of Pope Giulio de

Monti.

A NECKLACE OF PEARLS

From the 'Memoirs': Symonds's Translation

I must beg your attention now, most gracious reader, for a very

terrible event which happened.

I used the utmost diligence and industry to complete my statue, and

went to spend my evenings in the Duke's wardrobe, assisting there the

goldsmiths who were working for his Excellency. Indeed, they labored

mainly on designs which I had given them. Noticing that the Duke took

pleasure in seeing me at work and talking with me, I took it into my

head to go there sometimes also by day. It happened upon one of those

days that his Excellency came as usual to the room where I was

occupied, and more particularly because he heard of my arrival.

His Excellency entered at once into conversation, raising several

interesting topics, upon which I gave my views so much to his

entertainment that he showed more cheerfulness than I had ever seen

in him before. All of a sudden one of his secretaries appeared, and

whispered something of importance in his ear; whereupon the Duke rose,

and retired with the official into another chamber.

Now the Duchess had sent to see what his Excellency was doing, and her

page brought back this answer:--"The Duke is talking and laughing with

Benvenuto, and is in excellent good humor." When the Duchess heard

this, she came immediately to the wardrobe, and not finding the Duke

there, took a seat beside us. After watching us at work a while, she

turned to me with the utmost graciousness, and showed me a necklace of

large and really very fine pearls. On being asked by her what I

thought of them, I said it was in truth a very handsome ornament. Then

she spoke as follows:--"I should like the Duke to buy them for me; so

I beg you, my dear Benvenuto, to praise them to him as highly as you

can." At these words, I disclosed my mind to the Duchess with all the

respect I could, and answered:--"My lady, I thought this necklace of

pearls belonged already to your illustrious Excellency. Now that I am

aware you have not yet acquired them, it is right, nay more, it is my

duty, to utter what I might otherwise have refrained from saying;

namely, that my mature professional experience enables me to detect

very grave faults in the pearls, and for this reason I could never

advise your Excellency to purchase them."

She replied:--"The merchant offers them for six thousand crowns; and

were it not for some of those trifling defects you speak of, the rope

would be worth over twelve thousand."

To this I replied that, even were the necklace of quite flawless

quality, I could not advise any one to bid up to five thousand crowns

for it: for pearls are not gems; pearls are but fishes' bones, which

in the course of time must lose their freshness. Diamonds, rubies,

emeralds, and sapphires, on the contrary, never grow old; these four

are precious stones, and these it is right to purchase. When I had

thus spoken, the Duchess showed some signs of irritation, and

exclaimed, "I have a mind to possess these pearls; so prithee, take

them to the Duke and praise them up to the skies; even if you have to

use some words beyond the bounds of truth, speak them to do me

service; it will be well for you!"

I have always been the greatest friend of truth and foe of lies;

yet compelled by necessity, unwilling to lose the favor of so great

a princess, I took those confounded pearls sorely against my

inclination, and went with them over to the other room, whither the

Duke had withdrawn. No sooner did he set eyes upon me than he cried,

"O Benvenuto, what are you about here?" I uncovered the pearls and

said, "My lord, I am come to show you a most splendid necklace of

pearls, of the rarest quality, and truly worthy of your Excellency; I

do not believe it would be possible to put together eighty pearls

which could show better than these do in a necklace. My counsel

therefore is that you should buy them, for they are in good sooth

miraculous." He responded on the instant, "I do not choose to buy

them; they are not pearls of the quality and goodness you affirm; I

have seen the necklace, and they do not please me." Then I added,

"Pardon me, Prince! These pearls exceed in rarity and beauty any which

were ever brought together for a necklace." The Duchess had risen, and

was standing behind a door listening to all I said. Well, when I had

praised the pearls a thousandfold more warmly than I have described

above, the Duke turned toward me with a kindly look, and said, "O my

dear Benvenuto, I know that you have an excellent judgment in all

these matters. If the pearls are as rare as you certify, I should not

hesitate about their purchase; partly to gratify the Duchess and

partly to possess them, seeing I have always need of such things, not

so much for her Grace as for the various uses of my sons and

daughters." When I heard him speak thus, having once begun to tell

fibs, I stuck to them with even greater boldness; I gave all the color

of truth I could to my lies, confiding in the promise of the Duchess

to help me at the time of need. More than two hundred crowns were to

be my commission on the bargain, and the Duchess had intimated that I

should receive so much; but I was firmly resolved not to touch a

farthing, in order to secure my credit, and convince the Duke I was

not prompted by avarice. Once more his Excellency began to address me

with the greatest courtesy: "I know that you are a consummate judge of

these things; therefore, if you are the honest man I always thought

you, tell me now the truth." Thereat I flushed up to my eyes, which at

the same time filled with tears, and said to him, "My lord, if I tell

your most illustrious Excellency the truth, I shall make a mortal foe

of the Duchess; this will oblige me to depart from Florence, and my

enemies will begin at once to pour contempt upon my Perseus, which I

have announced as a masterpiece to the most noble school of your

illustrious Excellency. Such being the case, I recommend myself to

your most illustrious Excellency."

The Duke was now aware that all my previous speeches had been, as it

were, forced out of me. So he rejoined, "If you have confidence in me,

you need not stand in fear of anything whatever." I recommenced,

"Alas! my lord, what can prevent this coming to the ears of the

Duchess?" The Duke lifted his hand in sign of troth pledge and

exclaimed, "Be assured that what you say will be buried in a diamond

casket." To this engagement upon honor I replied by telling the truth

according to my judgment, namely, that the pearls were not worth above

two thousand crowns. The Duchess, thinking we had stopped talking, for

we now were speaking in as low a voice as possible, came forward and

began as follows:--"My lord, do me the favor to purchase this

necklace, because I have set my heart on them, and your Benvenuto here

has said he never saw a finer row of pearls." The Duke replied, "I do

not choose to buy them."--"Why, my lord, will not your Excellency

gratify me by buying them?"--"Because I do not care to throw my money

out of the window." The Duchess recommenced, "What do you mean by

throwing your money away, when Benvenuto, in whom you place such

well-merited confidence, has told me that they would be cheap at over

three thousand crowns?" Then the Duke said, "My lady! my Benvenuto

here has told me that if I purchase this necklace I shall be throwing

my money away, inasmuch as the pearls are neither round nor

well-matched, and some of them are quite faded. To prove that this is

so, look here! look there! consider this one and then that. The

necklace is not the sort of thing for me." At these words the Duchess

cast a glance of bitter spite at me, and retired with a threatening

nod of her head in my direction. I felt tempted to pack off at once

and bid farewell to Italy. Yet my Perseus being all but finished, I

did not like to leave without exposing it to public view. But I ask

every one to consider in what a grievous plight I found myself!

HOW BENVENUTO LOST HIS BROTHER

From the 'Memoirs': Symonds's Translation

My brother at this period was also in Rome, serving Duke Alessandro,

on whom the Pope had recently conferred the duchy of Penna. This

prince kept in his service a multitude of soldiers, worthy fellows,

brought up to valor in the school of that famous general Giovanni de'

Medici; and among these was my brother, whom the Duke esteemed as

highly as the bravest of them. One day my brother went after dinner to

the shop of a man called Baccino della Croce, in the Banchi, which all

those men-at-arms frequented. He had flung himself upon a settee and

was sleeping. Just then the guard of the Bargello passed by; they were

taking to prison a certain Captain Cisti, a Lombard, who had also been

a member of Giovanni's troop, but was not in the service of the Duke.

The captain, Cattivanza degli Strozzi, chanced to be in the same shop;

and when Cisti caught sight of him he whispered, "I was bringing you

those crowns I owed; if you want them, come for them before they go

with me to prison." Now Cattivanza had a way of putting his neighbors

to the push, not caring to hazard his own person. So, finding there

around him several young fellows of the highest daring, more eager

than apt for so serious an enterprise, he bade them catch up Captain

Cisti and get the money from him, and if the guard resisted, overpower

the men, provided they had pluck enough to do so.

The young men were but four, and all four of them without a beard. The

first was called Bertino Aldobrandi, another Anguillotto of Lucca; I

cannot recall the names of the rest. Bertino had been trained like a

pupil by my brother, and my brother felt the most unbounded love for

him. So then off dashed the four brave lads and came up with the guard

of the Bargello,--upwards of fifty constables, counting pikes,

arquebuses, and two-handed swords. After a few words they drew their

weapons, and the four boys so harried the guard that if Captain

Cattivanza had but shown his face, without so much as drawing, they

would certainly have put the whole pack to flight. But delay spoiled

all: for Bertino received some ugly wounds and fell; at the same time

Anguillotto was also hit in the right arm, and being unable to use his

sword, got out of the fray as well as he was able. The others did the

same. Bertino Aldobrandi was lifted from the ground seriously injured.

While these things were happening we were all at table; for that

morning we had dined more than an hour later than usual. On hearing

the commotion one of the old man's sons, the elder, rose from table to

go and look at the scuffle. He was called Giovanni; and I said to him,

"For Heaven's sake, don't go! In such matters one is always certain to

lose, while there is nothing to be gained." His father spoke to like

purpose, "Pray, my son, don't go!" But the lad, without heeding any

one, ran down the stairs. Reaching the Banchi, where the great

scrimmage was, and seeing Bertino lifted from the ground, he ran

towards home, and met my brother Cecchino on the way, who asked what

was the matter. Though some of the bystanders signed to Giovanni not

to tell Cecchino, he cried out like a madman how it was that Bertino

Aldobrandi had been killed by the guard. My poor brother gave vent to

a bellow which might have been heard ten miles away. Then he turned to

Giovanni: "Ah me! but could you tell me which of those men killed him

for me?" Giovanni said yes, that it was a man who had a big two-handed

sword, with a blue feather in his bonnet. My poor brother rushed

ahead, and having recognized the homicide by those signs, he threw

himself with all his dash and spirit into the middle of the band, and

before his man could turn on guard, ran him right through the guts,

and with the sword's hilt thrust him to the ground. Then he turned

upon the rest with such energy and daring that his one arm was on the

point of putting the whole band to flight, had it not been that while

wheeling round to strike an arquebusier, this man fired in

self-defense and hit the brave unfortunate young fellow above the knee

of his right leg. While he lay stretched upon the ground the

constables scrambled off in disorder as fast as they were able, lest a

pair to my brother should arrive upon the scene.

Noticing that the tumult was not subsiding, I too rose from table, and

girding on my sword--for everybody wore one then--I went to the bridge

of Sant' Agnolo, where I saw a group of several men assembled. On my

coming up and being recognized by some of them, they gave way before

me and showed me what I least of all things wished to see, albeit I

made mighty haste to view the sight. On the instant I did not know

Cecchino, since he was wearing a different suit of clothes from that

in which I had lately seen him. Accordingly he recognized me first and

said, "Dearest brother, do not be upset by my grave accident: it is

only what might be expected in my profession; get me removed from here

at once, for I have but few hours to live." They had acquainted me

with the whole event while he was speaking, in brief words befitting

such occasion. So I answered, "Brother, this is the greatest sorrow

and the greatest trial that could happen to me in the whole course of

my life. But be of good cheer; for before you lose sight of him who

did the mischief, you shall see yourself revenged by my hand." Our

words on both sides were to the purport, but of the shortest.

The guard was now about fifty paces from us; for Maffio, their

officer, had made some of them turn back to take up the corporal my

brother killed. Accordingly, I quickly traversed that short space,

wrapped in my cape, which I had tightened round me, and came up with

Maffio, whom I should most certainly have murdered; for there were

plenty of people round, and I had wound my way among them. With the

rapidity of lightning I had half drawn my sword from the sheath, when

Berlinghier Berlinghieri, a young man of the greatest daring and my

good friend, threw himself from behind upon my arms; he had four other

fellows of like kidney with him, who cried out to Maffio, "Away with

you, for this man here alone was killing you!" He asked, "Who is he?"

and they answered, "Own brother to the man you see there." Without

waiting to hear more, he made haste for Torre di Nona; and they said,

"Benvenuto, we prevented you against your will, but did it for your

good; now let us go to succor him who must die shortly." Accordingly

we turned and went back to my brother, whom I had at once conveyed

into a house. The doctors who were called in consultation treated him

with medicaments, but could not decide to amputate the leg, which

might perhaps have saved him.

As soon as his wound had been dressed, Duke Alessandro appeared and

most affectionately greeted him. My brother had not as yet lost

consciousness; so he said to the Duke, "My lord, this only grieves me,

that your Excellency is losing a servant than whom you may perchance

find men more valiant in the profession of arms, but none more

lovingly and loyally devoted to your service than I have been." The

Duke bade him do all he could to keep alive; for the rest, he well

knew him to be a man of worth and courage. He then turned to his

attendants, ordering them to see that the brave young fellow wanted

for nothing.

When he was gone, my brother lost blood so copiously--for nothing

could be done to stop it--that he went off his head and kept raving

all the following night, with the exception that once, when they

wanted to give him the communion, he said, "You would have done well

to confess me before; now it is impossible that I should receive the

divine sacrament in this already ruined frame; it will be enough if I

partake of it by the divine virtue of the eyesight, whereby it shall

be transmitted into my immortal soul, which only prays to Him for

mercy and forgiveness." Having spoken thus, the Host was elevated; but

he straightway relapsed into the same delirious ravings as before,

pouring forth a torrent of the most terrible frenzies and horrible

imprecations that the mind of man could imagine; nor did he cease once

all that night until the day broke.

When the sun appeared above our horizon he turned to me and said,

"Brother, I do not wish to stay here longer, for these fellows will

end by making me do something tremendous, which may cause them to

repent of the annoyance they have given me." Then he kicked out both

his legs--the injured limb we had inclosed in a very heavy box--and

made as though he would fling it across a horse's back. Turning his

face round to me, he called out thrice, "Farewell, farewell!" and with

the last word that most valiant spirit passed away.

At the proper hour, toward nightfall, I had him buried with due

ceremony in the Church of the Florentines; and afterwards I erected

to his memory a very handsome monument of marble, upon which I caused

trophies and banners to be carved. I must not omit to mention that one

of his friends had asked him who the man was that had killed him, and

if he could recognize him; to which he answered that he could, and

gave his description. My brother indeed attempted to prevent this

coming to my ears; but I got it very well impressed upon my mind, as

will appear in the sequel.

AN ADVENTURE IN NECROMANCY

From the 'Memoirs': Symonds's Translation

It happened through a variety of singular accidents that I became

intimate with a Sicilian priest, who was a man of very elevated genius

and well instructed in both Latin and Greek letters. In the course of

conversation one day we were led to talk about the art of necromancy,

apropos of which I said, "Throughout my whole life I have had the most

intense desire to see or learn something of this art." Thereto the

priest replied, "A stout soul and a steadfast must the man have who

sets himself to such an enterprise." I answered that of strength and

steadfastness of soul I should have enough and to spare, provided I

found the opportunity. Then the priest said, "If you have the heart to

dare it, I will amply satisfy your curiosity." Accordingly we agreed

upon attempting the adventure.

The priest one evening made his preparations, and bade me find a

comrade, or not more than two. I invited Vincenzio Romoli, a very dear

friend of mine, and the priest took with him a native of Pistoja, who

also cultivated the black art. We went together to the Coliseum; and

there the priest, having arrayed himself in necromancer's robes, began

to describe circles on the earth with the finest ceremonies that can

be imagined. I must say that he had made us bring precious perfumes

and fire, and also drugs of fetid odor. When the preliminaries were

completed he made the entrance into the circle, and taking us by the

hand, introduced us one by one inside it. Then he assigned our several

functions; to the necromancer, his comrade, he gave the pentacle to

hold; the other two of us had to look after the fire and the perfumes;

and then he began his incantations. This lasted more than an hour and

a half; when several legions appeared, and the Coliseum was all full

of devils. I was occupied with the precious perfumes, and when the

priest perceived in what numbers they were present he turned to me and

said, "Benvenuto, ask them something." I called on them to reunite me

with my Sicilian Angelica. That night we obtained no answer; but I

enjoyed the greatest satisfaction of my curiosity in such matters. The

necromancer said that we should have to go a second time, and that I

should obtain the full accomplishment of my request; but he wished me

to bring with me a little boy of pure virginity.